Explicit
by Robottko
Summary: When a few of the adult entertainers at Treasure Island Media drop dead from seemingly accidental causes, no one bats an eyelash. That is, until one of them leaves a note... Now Sherlock must find the person responsible for these deaths, or someone else may die, particularly a short blond who goes by the stage name John, and Sherlock's current obsession.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ****Though hardly my first fanfic, this is my first smut fic, so please be warned. Trigger warnings include rape/non-con in later chapters (I will mark the chapters this occurs in, don't you worry!) And while Treasure Island Media is a real pornography distributor, I am not affiliated with them in any way.**

**Disclaimer: I am Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and I totally own everything. This is the new canon. Enjoy it. Embrace it.***

* * *

It had been almost two weeks since Sherlock's last case, and he was practically seething. He had discovered that texting Detective Inspector Lestrade constantly in those two weeks caused the man to stop replying to him, which is why he was currently pacing the good inspector's flat rather impatiently. The silver haired man followed Sherlock with his eyes, his facial expression showing clearly how weary he was.

"Sherlock, I've already told you, I've nothing going on!" Lestrade said, the statement sounding well worn. "I've got a missing dog, two accidental porn star deaths, and mysterious graffiti popping up everywhere. Not exactly your favourite sorts of cases."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, shooting a glare at the older man. He spun on the spot dramatically, looking around the room as if to find something to do.

"No." Lestrade scolded, watching as Sherlock's eyes flitted about the room. "You need to leave. Last time you came over here, you broke three mugs and my ex-wife's tea kettle."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Lestrade glared back, mirroring Sherlock's image. The brunette finally broke eye contact, heaving another great sigh as he stomped over to the door.

"You will call me as soon as you get a case." Sherlock demanded, his hand on the door handle.

"Of course. Now get out of here." Lestrade said, waving him away. With a whirl of his greatcoat, Sherlock left Lestrade's flat, setting a beeline for his flat on Montague Street.

* * *

The first time Sherlock Holmes watched pornography, he was twenty years old and as high as a kite. He had heard through several sources that an old college friend had joined the porn business. His moniker, Victor Trembles, was not all that different than his legal name of Trevor, though highly distasteful. The entire business was highly distasteful, in fact, and if he hadn't acquired the tape from his dealer, he would have set fire to it right then and there.

His dealer, clearly thinking he had liked the videos, made sure to include a new 'Victor Trembles' video each time he bought cocaine. Sherlock watched all of them with growing revulsion, and he would have sworn off sex entirely if his dealer hadn't been entirely incompetent and mixed up his customer's tapes.

Sherlock had grudgingly popped in the tape, sitting down to prepare his seven percent solution when the man on screen began to moan. It sent shivers up his spine, and his lower half twitched with interest. Glancing up at the screen, he was surprised to see that the tape wasn't of Victor at all, but a different man instead.

He looked to be about twenty-five, made entirely of tanned skin and muscles. Shaggy blond hair danced across his forehead, framing his amazing blue eyes. Sherlock watched with growing interest as the man on screen began to stroke himself lazily, his gaze focused on the camera. The brunette found himself matching the man on screen stroke for stroke, and there in that dingy flat in London, Sherlock had his first orgasm, his vials and needles completely forgotten.

* * *

Sherlock quickly turned his experience with the video into an experiment of sorts. He learned the man, who simply went by 'John', was a well thought of porn star. He had won several awards, including a 'Grabby' and a 'Probie'. It was very clear to Sherlock just how popular John was in the industry.

After discovering who he was, Sherlock quickly made his way through the man's impressive repertoire, and he discovered that it didn't matter if John was solo, with a man, woman, or in a group, no matter what he did, the blond turned him on.

Then he attempted to produce the same results while watching other pornography videos. It became apparent rather quickly that if John was not present, he wasn't interested.

* * *

Eight years, and several damaged flats later, and this was still the case.

Sherlock arrived at his flat on Montague Street rather quickly, darting up the stairs and locking the door behind him. Removing his jacket and scarf, Sherlock let them fall to the floor in a haphazard pile before moving to his room, his long fingers grabbing at a well watched DVD as he went.

Even though Sherlock could get off with any of John's videos, his favourites were the solo acts. He preferred it when it was just him and John, no useless idiot in the background messing things up.

Sherlock slid the DVD into the player, half-hard before the video even started. Sherlock removed his trousers, sliding onto the bed as John appeared on screen, clad in nothing but red pants.

Sherlock pulled himself out of his own pants, his hand wrapped around himself as he watched John take out his cock and begin to stroke himself. Sherlock matched John's motions like he always did, pretending that John was stroking him, and he was stroking John. God, what he wouldn't give to be the one to be making John moan and pant like he did in his videos.

Keeping his eyes locked on the screen, he swiped his finger across the head of his cock, shuddering slightly at the small jolt of pleasure. He repeated the motion, pleased to find that he was already leaking pre-come. He smeared it across his hand, using it as lubricant.

"John…" Sherlock panted, stoking himself with renewed vigour. Though he had memorised every moan and gasp John made in this video, it always went straight to his cock. "John…oh god…"

Biting his lips to keep himself quiet, Sherlock watched as John threw his head back in bliss, his rips rolling against the friction of his own hand. Then he did something that never failed to make Sherlock come no matter how many times he watched the video.

Sitting up, John gazed directly at the camera, lust and desire clear in his eyes. For one brief second, Sherlock could pretend that John was looking at him like that, wanting him in that way. And sure enough, Sherlock came entirely too easy, hot ribbons decorating his chest as he cried out John's name.

And even though Sherlock had gotten his pleasure, his cock growing flaccid rapidly, he still watched as John pleasured himself, only turning off the DVD once John had orgasmed. It was one of his favourite things in the world, next to serial murders and his skull, Billy. The blond always looked perfect as he came, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, pleasure written across his face. A masterpiece.

As soon as he flicked off his DVD player, Sherlock grabbed a flannel and wiped the drying semen off of his chest before falling into bed, a small smile still on his face as he drifted off.

* * *

***This is a lie. This is just the ramblings of a crazy person.**

**Grabby- Grabby Awards (Adult Erotic Gay Video Awards)**

**Probie- The Probies**  
**(Men in video awards) are designed to be the 'People's choice awards' for the gay pornography industry.**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was up long before the 6:00 A.M. text from Lestrade arrived, his mind already in a state of agitated boredom. His toes were busy digging into the brown leather of his sofa, his hands folded under his chin as if in prayer. The sound of his mobile beeping brought him back to reality, and he allowed himself a few seconds to smugly smile before lunging for his phone. The smile grew wider when he saw the text was from Lestrade.

**_Scotland Yard. Break in porn star case. Need you immediately. GL_**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pulling himself into something resembling an upright stance. Sherlock had heard of the case briefly, but he had brushed it off as accidental deaths. Both men perished from allergic reactions, one was deathly allergic to nuts, the other happened to be allergic to bee stings. Neither of them were at the studio when the deaths occurred, but rather at home.

**_What's different about this one? SH_**

Sherlock walked to his room, quickly putting on his normal attire before heading out the door. Montague was only a quick cab ride away from the Met. He hailed a cab just as his mobile beeped again.

**_He left a note. GL_**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his mobile as the cab began to move. A note was always interesting, especially in a case that Sherlock had already brushed off as suicides. A killer that could make him believe that nothing was out of the ordinary? True, he never did see the crime scene, but he could normally suss out the good crimes just by police report alone. The cab pulled up in front of The New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock was surprised to see Lestrade already waiting for him.

"I know you don't like riding in police cars, but the address to this place is hush hush." Lestrade said by way of greeting, ushering Sherlock to the car as soon as the man had paid the cabbie and exited his cab. "They barely gave it to us, and you can't find it on the internet."

"Please. As if I couldn't find this place." Sherlock sneered, climbing unwillingly into the back of the car. Lestrade followed suit, buckling his seatbelt before starting the car. "What is the name of the company?"

"Treasure Island Media." Lestrade replied easily, failing to notice Sherlock perk up with interest as he entered traffic. "Not that you would know it, of course. You can't even remember that the earth goes 'round the sun half the time." Lestrade chuckled to himself, causing Sherlock to scowl.

"Do not think me so ignorant, Lestrade." Sherlock huffed. "The solar system isn't important in my line of work. Porn industries, however, can be. Sex, and everything it entails, connects quite well with a majority of my cases, or have you forgotten that?"

Lestrade snorted instead of responding, and the rest of their drive was spent in silence. Sherlock watched the buildings of London fly by, and he correctly guessed the location of Treasure Island media ten minutes before they arrived.

Sherlock stepped out of the vehicle the moment it stopped moving, earning himself several choice swearwords from the Detective Inspector. With a dramatic swirl of his greatcoat, Sherlock made his way up to the building, Lestrade running to keep up with him.

The pair were greeted at the door by a portly man with a thin moustache. His hair was greasy, slicked flat unto his head with an overabundance of hair product, and his overpowering cologne could be smelled from Lestrade's car. The man opened his arms, as if welcoming old friends, and his grin stretch wide across his face.

"Welcome, welcome!" He boomed, his voice, though higher than Sherlock's, was gravelly. "My name is Maxwell Jones, and I am the owner of this fine establishment. Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector." He held out his hand for Sherlock to shake, and the brunet eyed the hand with ill-concealed contempt.

"I am not the Detective Inspector." Sherlock said, stepping to the side to reveal a slightly red-faced Lestrade. "This man is. I am Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective."

"Of course, of course." Jones said, turning to Lestrade. Their handshake was quick, if not professional, and Jones turned once more to face the pair of them. "Nasty business we have in here. The third of my men to die from allergy related incidents in the past month..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, side stepping Jones to enter the building. The portly man let out a sound of surprise, and Sherlock could hear the Detective Inspector muttering some sort of apology to the man, though Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care what it was. He made his way down the long hallway, pausing before the dressing room of one Oliver Witte.

The man himself was slumped low in a soft looking armchair, one arm was draped across his stomach, the other hanging over his chair. He was wearing nothing but a robe which had just started to pull open, revealing a line of skin from his collarbone to the base of his cock. Sherlock walked slowly around the chair, not bothering to take his eyes off Witte as Lestrade and Jones entered the room.

"Allergic to strawberries. Horrendously so, I'm afraid." Jones told Lestrade in a stage whisper. "He had a salad brought up to him before a shoot, and the dressing was mixed with strawberry juices, it appears."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to Jones momentarily, a frown on his face. "I suppose that was in the note Witte left?" He asked, moving from the dead man to Jones. "I would like to see it."

Jones jerked his head towards the table where a plastic container was still sitting. Though the contents of the plate were almost gone, a few scraps of lettuce and a smear of dressing was still on the container.

"Lestrade, get a sample of the dressing. I want to see if it was just strawberry in the dressing. Jones, where is the note?"

"Under the plate." Jones replied, walking over and moving the container. On the table, carved into the wood with a pen were three words:

**Strwbry. Murder. John.**

Sherlock read over the words several times, his lips pursing. "Clearly he knew his murderer, and the man was either in the room, or he was worried that the murderer would return. If he believed his murderer to be long gone, he would have written a longer note than this, and most likely on paper. No, he carved the note into the table with a usable writing utensil; the ink is visible in the carved letters. Not only did he carve it in, but he hid it under his plate so it wouldn't be noticed if the man popped in to check on him. Oh, this is brilliant."

Sherlock whirled around, looking at the man in curiosity. "Now, how does he connect to the other porn stars? That's the true question. Why would these three men be targeted?"

"Competition?" Lestrade suggested from the corner of the room.

"A possibility." Sherlock responded, turning once more from the body. "I will need access to the homes of the other victims, of course. It's always best to see where everyone died to get the correct picture."

"But everything has been cleaned up!" Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock moved across the room. "There isn't any evidence there!"

"Doesn't matter." Sherlock replied flippantly, walking out of Witte's dressing room. "I need to see where they were when they died. You lot always leave behind the biggest evidence. It's a wonder you catch anyone, really." Sherlock shot Lestrade a look over his shoulder before turning back around. That was when he saw him.

Sherlock knew what company John worked for. He would have to be completely unobservant to not have learned that little detail. The third word in Witte's note confirmed the fact, but Sherlock never believed that he would see the man here. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, causing a distracted Lestrade to run into him in the process. It was in that moment, with a cursing Lestrade behind him, that John turned to look. Blue eyes locking with grey.

_Oh!_

Sherlock worked to keep his face impassive as John flashed the pair of them a bright smile, waving off the unimportant person he had been chatting with away.

"Hello there, you must be with the Scotland Yard." John said as he reached them. "Thanks for coming in on short notice."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked quickly. It had been a question he had been dying to know ever since he deduced that the low number of videos during a four year duration of John's career had come about because he had joined the army.

"Sorry, Afghanistan…how did you-" John began, surprise crossing his face.

"Sherlock, not now." Lestrade cut John off, looking annoyed. "I'm sorry, Mr…"

"Watson. John Watson." John replied, a silent thrill going through Sherlock at learning the man's last name finally. "He…how did you know that?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock. The brunet was surprised to see interest, and not the normal disgust on John's face.

"I didn't know, I saw." Sherlock replied. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." Sherlock held out his leather clad hand, quickly giving John's hand a shake before returning it to his pocket.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes." John said, a slow smile appearing on his face. Sherlock shifted, unsure of how to react.

"Sherlock, please." He said, straightening his posture until he was ram-rod straight. "I believe you are aware that your life is threatened."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cut in, his voice weary.

"No, it's alright." John said, shaking his head. "I'm the one who found Oliver. I saw the note."

"Yet you aren't afraid." Sherlock commented, his interest in John growing by the second. Oh, he was so much better in real life.

"I was a soldier." John pointed out, a wry grin on his face. "I'm used to the death threats, though not from civilians, I suppose."

Sherlock watched as John licked his lip, a wonderful habit of his, before speaking. "If you come upon any trouble, don't hesitate to call." He smoothly pulled out a business card with his name, number and website on it.

"This doesn't have an address." John commented, his eyes crinkling with another smile. Sherlock fought once again to keep himself in check.

"I've moved addresses so many times, it's not worth it to put it on there." He said, his voice falsely bored. "I'm currently living in a flat on Montague, though I highly suspect that I'll be kicked out this afternoon. Thankfully there's a landlady on Baker Street who knows me well. I believe I shall be able to live there for a while."

"Going to be kicked out?" John asked, his eyes moving from Sherlock's card back to his face. "Why do you think you'll be kicked out?"

"I don't think, I know." Sherlock said, ignoring the annoyed sigh from Lestrade. "Most landlords don't appreciate it when you leave thumbs on the kitchen table. Alas, I forgot to put them away."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, ignoring the way John's mouth fell open in shock. Perhaps that had been a bit not good. "I really need to leave. Moving is so time consuming."

Sherlock winked at John before sweeping out of the building, and he could feel the blonds eyes follow him the entire way out.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Today (August 31st) is my birthday, and so as a birthday gift to all of you, I updated this fic! I apologize a million times over that it took so ridiculously long to do. I promise, there have been some very good reasons that I've been kept away from writing anything the last two months. Loads of personal family drama has been eating away at my time. (And it's of the happy sort, I swear. Once you get past the shock of it all. But getting past the shock really is the crux of the drama, isn't it?)**  
**I thank you all so much for your unrelenting patience, and thank you so much for your lovely follows, favorites, and for reading this. You are all so brilliant, and I adore each and every one of you.**

**Marshmallow pies and Rodents Of Unusual Size,**  
**Robottko**


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